Lost & Found
by travellerfromanantiqueland
Summary: Faberry!Zombie Apocalypse AU - Quinn wakes up after her crash to find the world a changed place. The dead walk and the living hide. Surviving is worth nothing if you don't have something, or someone, to live for.


_**A/N: This has gone from a prose narrative to a screenplay (which, well, let's not get into my silliness in uploading that here...) and back to a prose narrative. For those of you who have read the 'screenplay' version of this, there isn't much new in the way of plot (for now!) but perhaps this offers a better insight into what is going on inside Quinn and Rachels' heads.**_

_**A/N 2: All mistakes are mine.**_

* * *

**1. Alive**

_Love in the middle of a fire fight,_

_Honey gotta strike me blind_

_Somebody gotta save my soul,_

_Baby, penetrate my mind_.

Music fills Quinn's ears, flooding her senses and drowning out her own heartbeat.

This is how she likes it; feeling her feet hit the road in time with the drums, her machete swinging back and forth against her thigh with each footfall. She lets the rough grungy guitar take over her mind, allowing her to forget the world outside. And for the most part it works. She feels her brain shut down and her body take over.

It's easier this way. Let your instincts take over. Let your body do the fighting because as soon as you let your mind into the battle, the fight ceases to be a primal matter of survival and becomes a matter of purpose. 'Why am I running?' instead of 'how fast do I run?'

'How fast?' is currently a languid jog. With her headphone firmly set under her mane of unruly pink hair and worn joggers cushioning her feet, Quinn could almost fool herself into believing she were out for a morning run.

As it was, however, the country air was tainted by the distinctive stench of rotting flesh: human and animal. Once pristine paddocks had fallen victim to Mother Nature, the horses and cows that had previously kept her at bay falling to an enemy far worse.

Quinn loosens one of her ear buds.

There it is: the haggard breathing and intermittent grunting of one such 'enemy'.

Skin hangs limply from its greying face, bits flying off occasionally with the gnashing of its jaws as it trails Quinn.

Quinn, however, is unfazed. This one is easy. Half of its right leg is torn, its foot bent at an awkward angle; hardly sprint material. Next time she would have to make sure Puck found a more challenging training exercise.

Quinn turns right into a side street. It leads up a small rise at the end of which sits a grand sandstone building guarded by two pillars, each adorned with rather grandiose lions. The words 'Marseilles Country Club' mark the right pillar. Quinn veers to the left into a street quite at odds with the surrounding acreages. Ostentatious houses line the street, each almost identical to the last. Even the well-intentioned mock-rustic flavour of these newer blocks cannot hide the distinct feeling that this housing development is nothing more than an intrusion on an otherwise homely country backdrop.

Quinn turns into the semi-circular drive of the first house on the right. A porch reaches across the front of the house accentuating the bay windows on either side of the oak front door.

Quinn pounds her fist against the oak and lets out a huff, not from exhaustion but rather frustration.

Puck knew the drill. He was supposed to be ready and waiting, the door open by the time she set her foot on that first step up the porch.

She pauses her iPod ready to yell out, a list of profanities on the tip of her tongue before she hears it again.

The moaning.

Quinn's hand automatically slides to her thigh and her makeshift holster where her machete hangs. She was _supposed_ to leave this one to Puck. Oh well, his loss.

"Didn't anyone ever tell you it's creepy to follow girls home?"

Quinn unhitches her machete, taking giant two steps down toward the figure hobbling up the drive. She swings it at the figure's skull, lodging it between its left eye and ear. Black blood dribbles down the creature's face as it falls to the ground.

"Hey, Fabray!"

Quinn spins around to the sound of Puck's low drawl.

Here comes that list of profanities again.

"What the fuck, Puck? Lucky you chose a fucking lame zom, I could've been mauled in our own driveway. And you think this mess is gonna be bad to clean-"

"Q, just hear me out. There's something you need to s-."

"And I'm going to need to charge my iPod next time we take your car out-"

"Q, can you just-"

"-I'm seriously low on-"

"Quinn. Just stop."

Puck raises his hand to Quinn's chest, effectively barring her from entering her own home. Well, her _father's_ home.

Nonetheless, the action stirs Quinn even more.

_Who the fuck did Puck think he was? Was he trying to get her killed? Had he decided murder-suicide was the way to go? Well, fuck she wouldn't exactly blame him._

And then she sees it. Three figures huddled in the hallway behind Puck. Two men, middle aged, one tall and fidgeting with his glasses, the other; solidly built and tanned and peeping out from between them the petite frame of one Rachel Berry.

* * *

Rachel rests against the passenger side door of a white sedan. Usually one of her fathers would tell her to stand up straight, to 'think of her posture and the dirt marks she would leave on the newly cleaned windows' but currently both are far too occupied in their own heated discussion to notice. Even so, this wasn't their car. No, they had found it on a verge in some silent back street, abandoned but otherwise in good nick and with a full tank of petrol.

But they were running low. Everything was running low.

Rachel runs her fingers across the keys of her phone: no reception. She can't help the sigh that escapes her lips. She should know by now, even so, she can't escape the feeling of loss the spreads through her body every time she turns her phone on to find nothing, to find no one.

She clicks it off. Five minutes. That's all she allows herself.

Five minutes every day, in the hope that maybe, just maybe there's a signal somewhere and maybe, just maybe _someone_ is trying to reach her.

Gruff shouts interrupt her sorrow.

"We're going around in circles, Leroy!"

"And what do you suggest we do instead? We tried the barracks at Fort Wayne. That was a disaster before we got within 20 miles of it."

Rachel tunes it out; this isn't the first time she's had to bear witness to her fathers' discussions regarding their fate. She knows despite their confusion and raised voices that they will figure something out, they always do. They'll take care of her, just like they always have.

The words "camping" and "go country", however, slip through the conversation and carry over to Rachel.

_Camping?_ _Oh no. Oh no no NO!_

She hated camping. Didn't her fathers know she has a very strict personal hygiene routine to which she insists she must – before she can voice her disapproval one of '_those'_ moments occur. Those 'post apocOH!lyptic' moments, as the Berrys had taken to calling them, when you remember where you are and why you are there. The words immediately sink in Rachel's throat.

Camping would be, in essence, not dissimilar to their current lifestyle: constantly moving from house to house, town to town, scavenging what they could and moving when supplies ran out or things became too dangerous.

"Rachel, honey, are you okay with this?"

She looked up into the sweet eyes of her father, nodding her acquiescence. They were going camping.

* * *

Rachel holds Quinn's stare. She takes in Quinn, a mess of pink hair, a baggy black shirt torn at the sleeves and muddy cargo shorts but it's Quinn's eyes, those deep hazel eyes that Rachel feels herself falling into that convince her she's not dreaming.

"You're alive."

It comes out as a whisper but the way it jolts Quinn out of her reverie makes Rachel feel as if she screamed it for all the nearby dead to hear.

Quinn forcibly pushes Puck's outstretched arm aside, slamming the door behind her. Her gaze falls on the mohawked boy.

"Puck. A word. _Now._"

Quinn doesn't wait for a response before pulling Puck aside, dragging him into a side room.

Rachel squeezes through the gap in between her fathers. Her dad, Leroy, makes a half-hearted attempt to stop her but relents with a look from her daddy.

She follows the muffled sounds of Quinn and Puck's voices. The door is ajar and Rachel can just make out the shadows of two figures against the eerie glow cast by the odd ray of sun leaking through boarded up windows. Rachel's eyes eventually adjust and she can make out a double bed protected by teddy bears and what appear to be cheerleading posters decking the walls, betraying the original demeanour of the room.

She stays silent, trying to catch every word from her position outside the room.

"I was on look out, Q, I _was_. I was waiting for you. But then… then, I saw a car, man."

Puck leaves his story hanging as if waiting for Quinn to acknowledge the astounding nature of his revelation.

"A car, Q. Actually driving down the road. I mean, not by itself obviously. People, people were clearly driving. And out here, of all places!"

Quinn maintains her silence and Rachel feels herself itching, just as Puck must be, for her to speak.

"Rachel-freaking-Berry, Quinn!"

Rachel can't help but feel a slight twinge of consternation at the phrasing of her miraculous appearance once again in their lives so crudely but the evident enthusiasm in Puck's tone abates her rising chagrin.

Quinn, however, does not appear to share this enthusiasm.

"They can't stay."

"What?"

"They can't _stay."_

The words sting Rachel, leaving her riddled with shock. What does Quinn mean they can't stay?

"Quinn, it's Rachel and Mr and Mr Berry.'

"It's more mouths to feed."

"More people to find food."

"More risk."

"Jesus Fabray, what's gotten into you? This is my girl Berry we're talking about. I have a duty to protect my fellow Jew."

Quinn scoffs.

"What's really going on, Fabray?"

"The world's gone to shit, that's what's going on. This is my house, my rules. Besides you owe me, Puckerman. They have a week. That's it. Or you're out on your arse too."

Before Rachel can oh so subtly remove herself from her oh so secret eavesdropping position Quinn is at the door.

Quinn says nothing, leaving cold dead air in her wake.

Puck follows.

"A week?"

Rachel doesn't anticipate the fear that rattles her voice.

Puck offers her an apologetic nod.

One week and then they were on the road again, left to scavenge for themselves, left to their own defences, homeless and alone.

Maybe Quinn Fabray was dead after all.

* * *

**_Song is 'Search and Destroy' cover by Skunk Anansie._**


End file.
